


Shine Out of Your Face Like Sunbeams

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Sam, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual, Top Dean, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4556259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How much is too much, and where is it supposed to end?</p><p>This is not a happy fic, not even remotely. But, step right up if you're interested anyway!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine Out of Your Face Like Sunbeams

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a quote by Roald Dahl.
> 
> Of course, I'm working on my Alpha Sam verse, and clearly needed to depress myself and those around me with this fic.

The first time, Sam used a hanger, and he got infected.

It was rusty, and he didn’t curve it well, and it burned, acid laced bones and blood.

He’ll remember not to do that again.

Dean doesn’t like condoms. Says they chafe, constrict him, and he only wants to feel one thing

_so tight, Sammy, just me in here, right? All mine?_

They’re questions, but not really, cause the only answer is yes.

Sam bends over the mirror sometimes, when it’s dark outside and all he can hear is cicadas, cause it’s hot in Georgia this time of year, and they drown out everything else. Dean says they’ll die off, be replaced by crickets, but Sam thinks they’re screaming.

It’s their death march.

Dean doesn’t like kids. That’s not exactly true, he likes them well enough, but he doesn’t want any right now.

_want you like this Sammy, like your legs all open, fucking wet_

Sam blushes, real deep pink, lets the color flood his skin, watches the patches of flesh bleed white where Dean presses in too hard, one two three bruises. Dean plays connect the dots with his tongue, string of saliva, and Sam shivers when the air hits the cooling spit.

Sam remembers how tight he was, he bent it all the way inside himself, felt it scrabble and rip at his dry insides, no slick to ease the way, dirty flames. Crimson splashed against little boy legs. He wipes it up as best he can, but it keeps coming, red sea, and Dean finds him drowning in it.

_Sam. Sammy. SamSamSammySam. Baby. Baby why, don’t move, stop fucking moving Sam_

Dean can’t come inside with him, and his head lolls against the backseat of the Impala, and he’s got a towel down underneath him, cause blood’s hard to get out of the upholstery and Dean told Sam when he was six that they couldn’t use Clorox.

Dean’s crying, fat ugly tears, he keeps wiping his face and gripping the wheel, and it’s slick shiny with tears and snot, and Sam wonders how Dean can drive that way, Baby so soiled and ugly.

They stitch Sam right up, don’t ask many questions, but it’s a busy night, there was an accident over on Taylor, and there’s a woman who looks like Two Face from Batman, and Sam doesn’t think they care much about the twelve year old and a metal stake.

He can’t walk for a little bit after that, but that’s fine, they’re all alone, Dad’s in Alabama and Dean says they won’t be there when he gets back.

Dean tugs him close by the arms, twists him around so his sore backside is pressed to Dean’s fat cock, and his brother’s riding the cleft of his ass, hot and thick, and Sam whimpers. Dean’s tears splatter onto his forehead and dribble into his eyes.

Dean must be crying a lot if Sam can feel them on his head, too.

Sam’s whole body tenses and shudders when Dean pauses, sharp hiccup as he comes, dick jerking spasmodically, and it’s so warm, it coats Sammy’s inner thighs, seeps through the basketball shorts Dean changed him into before the hospital.

He sleeps on his stomach that night and Dean tells him not to wash.

Sam lets him come on his legs again, smooth the warm fluid into his baby-boy thighs, draw pictures that only Sam can read.

_Bird, Dean._

_Pentagram_

Dean licks him clean, leans forward and tugs Sam’s head back gingerly, feeds his come to Sam in kitten licks, coats his tongue in it, carefully slathers the inside of his jaw.

_Gonna swallow for me, baby_

Sam licks the corner of Dean’s lips, way he likes, and his brother groans, jerks him up by the hips before he forgets, lowers Sam’s body back to the bed gently, rolls on his side.

_You’re sleeping alone tonight, Sam. I’ll take the couch_

Sam doesn’t do well alone. He dreams of black daylight and blood-rain, ash and debris, smells burning flesh and singed hair. He wets the bed and lays real still, body tight, cause he doesn’t want Dean to know. Change his sheets and change his clothes.

It cools on his flesh, and his little dick chubs up at the rough sensation of wet cloth and damp skin.

He can hear Dean snoring nearby, and he thinks maybe the cicadas are dying.  

The second time Sam is smarter about it, reads up, and takes Cyotec. It’s prescription but Sam’s never had any problems getting his hands on drugs, and they live alone now, and Dean’s gone to work.

He buries the tests in the dirt in the back of the house, and it’s painted green, the house is, hunter green, chipped in some corners, warped by sun in others. He likes it. Dean’s gonna paint it, and does Sammy like yellow?

There’s four tests, cause Sam likes to be sure, and variation provides a greater measure of security.

He has diarrhea about a week after he starts taking it, and it’s loud, he cramps and cries, shakes on the toilet til he slips on sweat and falls off, and Dean won’t stop banging

_let me the fuck in Sammy. Please, Sammy, baby, please you’re scaring me. Just wanna know you’re okay_

Can’t breathe past the pain in his stomach, feels better when he sleeps on his back, Dean’s arm hot and tight, steel band on his womb, and Sam can float.

Dean likes him when he’s just between sleep and awareness, that little grey area where up might be down. He knows to play nice, press his face into the pillow and push his ass out, let Dean grab the soft mounds, press snake bites to his ass

_like it red, baby_

hold his asscheeks apart with big hands, spit on the wrinkled furl and drag his stubble across til it burns nice and warm, and Sammy’s crying

_gotta come, Dean, gotta fuck me, lemme suck on it a little, then_

and Dean _loves_ that, makes him so hard, loves to see Sam’s ass clench on air and promise, pearly droplets of slick collect and balance on Dean’s chin.

Sam lets Dean pound him on all fours, sharp sting of teeth just above the first knot in his spine. That’s Dean’s spot.

_Don’t want anyone else, Sammy? Just me? For me?_

And Sam grunts, uh huh, lets Dean wiggle in his index finger next to his dick, push in and out at the same time, and Sam feels like a rubber band, thin and sticky, razor thin edge.

Dean feeds Sam his finger afterwards, bitter sweet, and Dean groans every time, is Sammy his pretty boy?

_only one I ever loved?_

Sam is fat, belly heavy and swollen with child, can’t sit up straight, cause his belly slings over his pants. Got no weight anywhere but there, and his back hurts, burns like rubber on asphalt, ache like death.

Doesn’t know how it got this far, but Dean still draws him pictures, on his belly this time, spells out little boy names, asks if Sam’s been thinking about it, and what would he like?

Sam stares up at the ceiling for a long time that night, Dean’s moist breath cradling the top of his head.

He can’t hear a thing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo, glad this is temporarily out of my system, comments are ever appreciated!


End file.
